


The Revolution of the Weeds

by R_Black



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Gen, Mentions of Blood, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Non-Sexual Slavery, OC-heavy, POV changes in later chapters, Psychological Torture, Slavery, canonically-sound as of season 5, posted before season six
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-03 23:57:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 19,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14007648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Black/pseuds/R_Black
Summary: Commander Throk had it all: Rank, allies, a Fleet of his own, a place in Zarkon’s inner circle, and the respect of the Empire. He was content with that, and grateful for the chance to serve his Emperor with all he had. But then he’d lost it, thanks to one single failure…thanks to Lotor. Suddenly the Empire has turned on him, his allies are gone, and his rank has been stripped away with his dignity. Held on a slave planet until Haggar decides how to finish him off, Throk is bitter and out for vengeance. If the Empire itself has denied him death, then victory is still an available option. He just needs to wait. He will break free, even if that means turning his back on the Empire he’d sworn to die for.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My entry for the Galra Big Bang~!  
> [Candyfoxdraws](http://candyfoxdraws.tumblr.com/) was my artist partner, and has done some amazing artwork for this! Check out the whole post [HERE](http://candyfoxdraws.tumblr.com/post/172010436158)  
> Fair warning that some scenes are not suitable for younger audiences.

Commander Throk was accustomed to pain. He hadn’t been promoted to Zarkon’s inner circle without going through some. Though the Druids’ torture was agony, he could admit he had been through much worse out in the field. Admittedly, he couldn’t think of any circumstance in which he’d had worse pain…at least, not at the moment.  


At least he was allowed brief periods of rest. Though the witch had ordered her underlings to torture him until he talked—about what, he barely remembered anymore—they knew everyone had limits. He would die if they pushed him too far, and then would have to face the wrath of Haggar. No one wanted that.

He had taken one of these brief moments to doze. How long had he been awake? Probably a quintant or two, at least. He hadn’t eaten since he’d been put in this blasted chamber, though thankfully water was always provided.

The hiss of the door forced him to open his eyes, despite his desire to keep them closed. After a few tics, his vision focused. There were three figures in front of him, two being Sentries and the last…

“Well-well,” he rasped out, lips quirking in a semi-smile. “If it isn’t the last remaining member of Emperor Zarkon’s respected Circle…”

The visitor, a blue Galra commander, paused, clicking his tongue. “You look like trash, Throk.” He crossed his arms, his plasma claws—three on each hand where fingers should have been—glowing slightly in the light of the chamber.

“You don’t say...” Throk attempted to lift his head a little more, just to look his friend in the eye. It didn’t really work, and his chin met his chest within a tic. “So, has Zarkon ordered his witch to stand down and let me go, then? Maybe send me to a cryopod?”

The healthy commander shook his head. “No.”

No?

Before Throk could ask anything else, his shackles were powered down. His sudden release caused him to fall to the ground with a heavy THUD. The Sentry robots immediately grabbed his arms, hoisting him to his feet. He grunted at the harshness.

“What’s going on?” he demanded.

“You’ve been stripped of your rank, Throk,” his friend informed him. “And you’ve been dishonorably discharged. Haggar has ordered you to be sent to the prison moon Nuliyue.”

“What!?” The Sentries forced Throk’s hands together in front of him, shackling them. “How dare you! After all I’ve done for the Empire...all I’ve sacrificed...this is how I’m repaid? Sent to die like a broken pack animal on some rock?”

They were moving now, with the commander in the lead. Throk was forced to march with the two Sentries flanked on either side of him.

“You won’t die there,” the commander assured him. “Haggar wants you alive. When all this business with Lotor dies down, she’ll come back for you.”

“And then what?” Throk’s ears flattened. “I end up like Prorok? Turned into one of her experiments, given a fate worse than death!?”

No answer came. The group walked in silence after that, slowly making their way to the prison shuttles. Once or twice, Throk thought about wiggling his way free, but he didn’t follow through with it. He had nowhere to go.

Finally, they entered the loading bay. Many prisoners--useless gladiators and wounded aliens--were being shoved into prison shuttles. There were hundreds of shuttles in there, but only one was meant for Nuliyue.

Throk had heard little of the prison moon. It was a plantation moon, a small satellite that orbited a large, uninhabitable planet. Most of the time, work was outside under a bright sun with very little water. Some said it was the worst place to get sent to on orders, others said it was a cushy job. Of course, that was just the perspective of the soldiers. No one ever asked prisoners.

There were about five prisoners lined up in front of the shuttle, all different species. Throk would be the only Galra to join their puny group.

The commander stopped, signaling the Sentries to leave. They did so, and Throk cocked an eyebrow at his so-called friend. The blue Galra sighed, sagging his shoulders dejectedly. “I’m sorry this is happening, friend,” he muttered sadly. “I have no choice.”

Throk didn’t meet his eyes. “You could have defended me.”

“I tried. The witch doesn’t listen to anyone but Zarkon, you know that.”

“...I know...”

A sad silence fell over them for a dobash or so. Then, the commander snapped back to attention. His eyes hardened. “I’m sorry,” he said one last time.

He shoved Throk toward the line of prisoners being ushered onto the shuttle. The tall Galra glared at his new companions, all of whom were smaller than him and very, very scared.

The Sentries from before reappeared once all six prisoners were sitting down. Their guns were cocked, ready to fire at any who dared to even sneeze wrong.

Throk took one last look at the door. His friend stood there, saluting. Throk risked raising his still-shackled hands in a final salute. They nodded at each other once, right before the shuttle door closed, encasing the prisoners and Sentries in darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

It took only a varga to reach the prison moon, even with a hyper jump, and Throk had already had enough. His new companions cried the entire time, calling for their personal deities to save them, asking for their parental figures, etc. He stayed silent, trying to ignore their distress.

Of course, some of them also decided to start up a conversation with each other. About him.

“What do you think he did?”

“Must’ve been bad.”

“Why would a Galra be a prisoner?”

“Maybe this is some sort of hazing ritual for new soldiers going to this prison?”

It occurred to Throk that he was still in his uniform. He hadn’t had a chance to take it off since being plucked from his backwater post. His thermal suit had survived most of the torture, but the outer armor had definitely suffered just as much damage as he had. It was dented and cracked, with a piece or two missing from his chest.

His ears pinned back at the thought of how far he’d fallen. It hadn’t even been that long ago since Lotor tried to rule the Empire, and Throk had lost literally everything. He growled quietly, plotting up ways to try and smooth-talk his way into the prison warden’s trusted circle, just so he could find a way to get to Lotor and kill the damn half-breed himself.

The shuttle landed smoothly, and the prisoners were marched out within a dobash. The loading bay on Nuliyue didn’t seem like much to Throk; just a poorly-kept copy of the one on Zarkon’s command ship, with mud and grime caking the floors and walls.

Each of the prisoners were shoved one-by-one into the disinfectant chamber. Throk had the lucky honor to be last in line, hearing the uncomfortable yells of his new comrades as they were blasted with antibacterial liquids.

When it was his turn, Throk was stripped painfully by the Sentries. His armor was cut off with a plasma knife and his thermal suit was ripped in a similar fashion. At least he was allowed the pleasure of taking off his own undergarments.

Within tics of his clothes being removed and placed in the incinerator, Throk was shoved into the disinfectant chamber. He’d had to go through some before, after particularly gnarly missions through a planet’s unknown atmospheres but never had it been this...humiliating.

The antibacterial spray that hit him was powerful. Within tics, every inch of him was covered in the sticky substance. He grunted in discomfort as the spray became more focused on his...hard-to-reach areas. The spray was soon replaced with freezing water, and he was left standing inside the chamber, shivering and still dripping water and disinfectant. He suspected he looked like a drowned Yupper, his fur clinging to his skin as he waited in vain for a possible dry cycle.

He didn’t get one.

The Sentries pulled him out of the chamber and lined him up next to the other five prisoners, all of whom were also soaking wet and naked, just as he was. More Sentries entered the room, this time with whips, Throk noticed. A Sentry now stood behind each prisoner.

A silent signal was passed, and each Sentry suddenly reeled back their whips and cracked them across the backs of the prisoners. All but Throk screamed in surprise and fell to their knees. Throk merely flinched, gritting his teeth.

A door on the far side of the room slid open, and a large commander strode inside, head held high. It was an Arctic Galra, much like the late Commander Sendak, but half of his left ear was missing, as was his whole left leg. He was also a darker shade of purple, nearly the color Prorok and Thace had been.

A medical officer entered after him, about a head shorter than the Arctic, but thinner. Most medical officers were like that, Throk had noticed; thin and gangly. The medical officer was covered from head-to-toe in his uniform, so Throk had no idea what he--or she--might even look like.

The commander raked his eyes over his kneeling prisoners, a smirk adorning his ugly mug. When he saw Throk, though, his smirk disappeared. His head bobbed in an almost unnoticeable way, and Throk’s back burned as the Sentry continued to whip him.

He knew this game. He was supposed to bow. To submit. To scrape his face in the dirt like a non-Galra should. He held his ground, grinding his teeth together as the whipping continued. He would not willingly bow to any but Emperor Zarkon.

The commander growled when he realized Throk wouldn’t submit. He held up his hand to stop the whipping.

“I heard I was getting a discharged officer,” he rumbled. His voice sounded like he was constantly chewing rocks as he spoke. “A failure to the Empire, the report said. Never imagined it would be High Commander Throk himself!”

Throk only glared at him in answer.

The other prisoners lifted their heads a little to glance at Throk. No doubt they were wondering about Throk’s situation, and what he did to deserve this fate.

“Sentries,” the commander said, his smirk returning, “Up the punishment.”

Throk heard the hum of electricity mere tics before the newly-electrified whip hit his back. Lightning shot through his veins and for a brief moment he thought he was back in the Druids’ torture chamber, still shackled to their device and screaming in agony.

He was thrust into the present a few tics later, realizing he was on his hands and knees, panting heavily. It was no longer the cold that made him shiver, but the fear of being touched by that awful electricity again.

“I am Commander Varulk,” came the rocky voice above Throk. Had he moved? The former commander couldn’t find the strength to lift his head to check. “The warden here at Nuliyue. The first rule here is this...”

A foot slammed into Throk’s burned back, shoving him to the ground.

“When I or my SiC are in the vicinity, you drop everything and submit. If you don’t, the Sentries will make sure you do. No matter what.”

The foot moved to the back of Throk’s head, scraping against it like a welcome mat. Throk grunted in pain as his face was ground into the floor.

“I don’t care who you were before,” Varulk continued. “I don’t care what you did. You’re all my prisoners now, and that means you’re nothing but a number.”

The foot retreated, and Throk was allowed to kneel. He swallowed his pride, as well as the lump in his throat, and pushed himself to his knees. A bit of blood started dripping from his flattened nose.

“You’ll each be given your new prisoner uniform, a number you will answer to, and a random job based on your species’ attributes.” Varulk nodded to the medical officer, who pulled out a strange device. “You will all be chipped, as well. Try to escape or pull a coup, and I guarantee you’ll get the shock of your life.”

One by one, the prisoners were held down by the Sentries. A chip was inserted into the backs of their necks, just under the skin. All of them gave a squeak of discomfort. Throk held his breath as the Sentries grabbed him.

“Oh.” Varulk snapped his sausage fingers. “Heim, that one gets the Druid chip.”

The medical officer silently nodded, replacing his device with another, larger one. Throk was shifted to his back, and he struggled uselessly as the medical officer placed the device against his forehead.

Agony ripped through his skull. Throk screamed, his vision trying to decide whether he needed to see red or blinding white. Tears formed at the edges of his eyes, threatening to fall.

The Sentries dropped him. He fell to the ground in a heap, eyes rolling up to the back of his head, mouth open wide to swallow large amounts of air. His forehead burned, his limbs jerked and spasmed, and his heart pounded at a mile a minute.

A boot prodded his side twice, then flipped him roughly onto his stomach. Throk grunted, his head spinning.

“Congratulations, _D-002_ ,” Varulk’s voice sneered in Throk’s ear. “You got the Druid chip. It’s a special chip designed to keep you alive. One that marks you as… _claimed property_.”

A snap of the fingers. “Take him to the Delta Barracks. He’s going to be rather out of it for the rest of the day.”

Cold, metallic hands heaved Throk upward into a standing position. He wished his vision would stop swimming. He tried to speak his discomfort, but nearly retched when his mouth opened. Even groaning was a chore, it seemed.

He hadn’t a clue how long it took to get to the ‘Delta Barracks’. At one point the Sentries forced him to stand straight, and somewhere in the back of his mind he knew there was a machine scanning him for his body measurements. That meant he’d get a proper-fitting prisoner suit, at least. After a moment or two, he was dragged away again, still naked.

He assumed they’d gone outside at some point, since he could feel dirt clogging between his toes. Most of his senses were disconnected, like he’d gone into a dream…

An impact with concrete jarred him back to reality. He was lying face-down on the cold, hard ground, surrounded by straw. He heard a slam behind him, signaling he was finally alone.

“Oh, dear.”

…or not.


	3. Chapter 3

Throk opened his eyes slowly. His head throbbed, but it was far more bearable than before. He shifted his weight, suddenly realizing he was lying on his back in a bed of straw, an itchy wool blanket the only thing covering his battered form. He tried sitting up, but his headache returned the moment he moved, so he sat back, closing his eyes and steadying his breathing.

“Don’t try to move too much,” someone warned to his left.

Throk jerked away from the small voice, sending his vision into a jumbled mess for a few tics. When it cleared, he saw a small Galra kit looking back at him; one that looked almost exactly like he had as a kit. A purple, gangly, gremlin of a kit, with eyes that took up half its face and ears the size of satellites, the kit was as unimpressive of a Galra specimen as he had been so many decaphoebs ago. The only thing ruining the perfect replica was a tiny silver gem embedded into its forehead.

The kit was wearing a prisoner’s uniform; a dark purple thermal suit with a ragged crop top draping over its torso. It looked extremely out-of-place on one so young, especially a Galra kit.

“Hold still,” the kit ordered softly. “Give the pain time to fade.”

Throk grunted, shaking his head. The action caused a wet rag to fall from its perch. It was a disgusting, blood-stained scrap, and Throk grimaced as it slid down its nose. “What…?” he rasped. “Where am I…?”

“Delta Barracks.” The kit’s ears drooped a little. “I know it’s not much to look at…”

Throk glanced around. ‘Barracks’ was a term very loosely used. It was more like a stable. Only one door was visible, and Throk didn’t need to assume it was the entrance. No windows seemed to allow natural light inside, but there were at least a few old lights (powered by what, he hadn’t the foggiest idea) to help him see. Damp straw littered the floor, stacked in three different piles, on one of which Throk was laying. The wetness wasn’t limited to the straw, though. Various stagnant puddles were scattered across the stable—he couldn’t see it as anything but, honestly—and the colors ranged from blue to yellow to brown.

Throk shifted in his itchy blanket upon seeing his own prisoner’s uniform laying in a heap on the floor. It was conveniently halfway inside one of the browner puddles. Perfect.

The kit followed his vision and shrugged apologetically. “They threw it in here faster than I could catch it. I’m sorry.”

“Who are you?” Throk finally managed to spit.

The kit straightened, his ears perking. “Oh! My number is D-001.”

“Your name, kit,” Throk growled. “What is it?”

“P-Perda,” the kit said quietly. “But we’re not supposed to keep our names. Only numbers. And I’m not a kit…this is just the form I happen to be taking.”

“What?” Throk shifted himself up a bit more. The blanket fell to his hips as he did so. “What form?”

“I’m a Boggarian Shifter,” the kit answered. “I can, um, transform into anyone I form an empathic link with, I think.”

Throk had heard of Boggarians. Much like Alteans, Boggarians had a shapeshifting ability that helped for diplomatic and dignitary missions. However, they were able to transform their entire body, not just the height and color. Something to do with that _empathic link_ Perda had mentioned.

“So, you chose to form a link with me?” Throk asked incredulously. “Why?”

Perda’s ears pinned back, almost as if he were angry. “I didn’t _choose_. I’m…not good with control. I kinda just transform into whoever has the strongest emotions near me.”

“And when you’re alone?”

The shapeshifter was silent. _Of course_ , Throk thought. Boggarians were also known to keep their true forms a secret. Even the highest diplomat had never shown their true shape at summits.

“Why are you here?” Throk asked, his head clearing more.

“Same reason you’re here. Druid experimentation.” Perda said it as if it were obvious. “They keep us alive, so the Druids can…use us later.”

Throk grunted, reaching out to grab his new uniform. He shook a few of the brown droplets off it before attempting to squeeze it on. Too much sudden movements made his head swim, causing multiple pauses. Perda tried to help exactly one time and nearly got his hand bitten off. The Boggarian backed away and silently waited for Throk to finish dressing himself.

Once the suit was on, Throk turned back to his fellow prisoner. “What did you do to get yourself here?”

The shifter grimaced. “I was born. Boggara was destroyed recently in one of the Empire’s expansion missions. I think the exact words they used when they came were, ‘ _You are all no longer useful to the Empire as a free planet._ ’ Those of us that survived were captured or killed. I was the only Boggarian to get sent here.”

The sad Galra face nearly made Throk wince. As it was, he merely narrowed his eyes. “How long have you been here?”

“I don’t remember anymore.” Perda seemed to grow curious. “What about you? You’re a _real_ Galra, like the ones stationed here. What’d you do?”

Throk growled low in his throat. His ears swiveled back, and he had to force himself not to yell. “I am innocent! I was framed and thrown onto this miserable rock because of that _worm_ of a halfbreed!”

Perda blinked slowly. “O-kay.”

Throk pushed the kit away. Yes, he was a kit. If he couldn’t control his shapeshifting, then he was no better than a Galra kit. “Leave me alone,” he growled.

The shifter lowered his head and backed away. He ended up laying on one of the straw piles, dozing off instantly.

Throk sat back down on his pile and pulled his knees to his chest. He contemplated his situation. Perhaps he could salvage his situation. He thought back to his original plan of getting on the commander’s good side and eventually earning a place in the ranks again.

His gaze caught the sleeping form of Perda, and his heart sank slightly. The Druids were not known for mercy, and they did not make deals with the military. If anything, they outranked even the High Commander.

Throk rubbed the gemstone chip now embedded in his forehead. He was screwed.


	4. Chapter 4

A shock to the forehead woke Throk up from his slumber. He didn’t remember going to sleep, but instantly he knew he hadn’t had enough.

The medical officer from yesterday was standing in the doorway of Delta Barracks, holding a remote. “Good morning,” they said through their mask. Throk was still not sure of their gender. Their voice was constantly in flux due to the mask’s voice-changing software.

Out of the corner of his eye, Throk saw Perda scraping his face against the ground obediently. The kit was visibly shaking.

The medical officer—Heim, if Throk remembered correctly—tilted his head at Throk, who had sat up but not bowed. He pressed a button on the remote. Lightning coursed through Throk’s forehead, causing his limbs to seize up. His body betrayed him and buckled, forcing his face to hit the dirt.

“Much better,” sneered Heim. “I hope your first night was pleasant, _D-002_.”

They’d emphasized his number. Throk growled low in his throat. They’d pry his name from his cold, dead fingers before he answered to that slave number.

“I bet you’re wondering what your job will be,” Heim continued. “Since extreme labors—such as construction, engine work, and forestry—are not good for the livelihood of Druid-Claimed such as you, we’ll be putting you in the fields.”

Throk glanced over at Perda, who’d perked up a bit. He wondered if that meant he’d be taking Perda’s place as…whatever he was.

Rough, metallic hands pulled him up. Throk wobbled a little, still feeling the effects of the shock from earlier. Standing at full height, he was easily taller than Heim. If he reached out, he could crush Heim’s small head with his fist.

The thought gave him much pleasure.

If the medical officer was concerned about the height difference, they didn’t show it. They turned on their heels and marched out of the stable. Throk and Perda were shoved forward together, forced to follow.

Outside. Throk hadn’t been outside in a long time. It felt foreign to feel dirt between his toes, to see grass rise up to his knees, to feel the sun beating down on his skin.

Throk glared at the sun. It was disgustingly hot already, but it was barely above the horizon. Though not very bright, the whiteness of it was so hot it made him sweat within minutes.

As if sensing his uncomfortable thoughts, Heim suddenly said, “The moon’s planet orbits a white dwarf star. Though dull, it’s extremely hot. That heat and radiation combination is good for the crops here. The crop fields are where you’ll be working.”

Throk rolled his eyes. That didn’t sound so bad. Crops were a seasonal thing, which meant he must be getting a break sometime.

Heim must have known he was thinking this because: “The crops grown here are year-round. Each section is reaped at a different time in order to maximize supply. Every day you’ll report to the Distributor—” they pointed to a tent, which had a line of slaves already filing in and out. “—and will be given your sector. Since you’re Druid-claimed, you won’t be harvesting. You’ll be weeding.”

Throk’s ears shoved forward. “What?” he finally demanded. “ _Weeding?_ You would _dare_ give m—” he was cut off by a heavy shock to his forehead, forcing him back into the torture memories. When he came to, his face was in the dirt, the back of his head being held down by a boot.

“Prisoners don’t talk back,” Heim snarled. “They _obey_. Next time you speak out of line, I’ll put in a request for our Druid to take your tongue out for a week.”

They continued onward as soon as Throk was allowed up. He growled low in his throat and pinned his ears back, but held his tongue. For now.

“Lunch rations will be provided daily and you will have ten minutes to eat it. Water is distributed throughout the day by our water boys.”

Heim pointed and Throk followed the finger to…Perda. The shifter looked bashful, but didn’t say anything.

“If you disobey or try to run somewhere…” Heim’s finger hovered over the button on the remote. Throk received that message loud and clear.

“There will also be days when you will be requested by our resident Druid,” Heim stated. “Though, he may not be able to request you as often as D-001, since Haggar has laid a specific claim to you.”

Throk was not looking forward to that. More Druids? He’d thought at least here he could forget those creatures existed.

Throk and Perda were led over to the Distribution Tent, where two bored officers were lazing and fanning themselves in between slave assignments. As soon as they saw Heim, they snapped to attention.

“Here are the D’s,” Heim said to the officers. “D-002 will be a weeder. D-001 has not changed station.”

Immediately, the officers looked at Throk with confused eyes. They’d probably seen him before, or at least heard of him, and the situation was very confusing. With great hesitance, one of the officers grabbed a large basket pack, around Perda’s size.

Heim, ever the impatient one, took it from the officer and slapped it on Throk’s back. His torso was wrapped in large straps, which gave him little flexibility; only his forearms could move freely, as his biceps were kept in place by the basket pack’s straps. Something bumped against the back of his legs, and when he turned to look, he saw it was a sort of vacuum tube.

“Just pull the weeds and keep going,” Heim snapped. “The vacuum has a sensor that will suck up the pulled weeds into your pack. Your pack will be emptied at the end of the day.”

“And when is the end of the day?” Throk challenged.

Heim looked ready to throttle him, but kept a calm demeanor. “In about fourteen vargas.”

Throk was about to protest that that was ridiculous, but the thumb above the remote made him pause. He growled and looked away.

“Where are the weeders stationed today?” the medical officer asked the other two Galra in the tent.

“U-um…” The officer that hadn’t retrieved Throk’s pack shakily thumbed a log book. “Sector 33, Ma’am.”

Oh, Heim was a female. Now that he knew, Throk could actually see the subtle body shape that made females slightly different, depending on subspecies. They weren’t more delicate, but they tended to be smaller in stature. It made sense.

Throk was shoved back outside roughly by two Sentry bots and led about three miles beyond the Distribution tent. Three miles should have been nothing to him, a former High Commander. He’d run ten times the distance and barely felt winded.

But now he had a restrictive pack on his back, and a dim sun that burned hotter than he’d ever thought a sun could burn. His throat was already dry, needing water, and his fur began to slick from sweat.

Finally, he saw multiple shapes in the approaching fields. All of them were moving slow, on their hands and knees. It was like watching skeletons wander around, looking for lost objects.

Throk was led to a large line of crops, untended to by the present weeders. Throk looked around at the other slaves, noting which plants were weeds. He huffed once and bent down.

He would do this with dignity. He wouldn’t let them think he was broken. He was a strong Galra, better than any slave here. He’d prove he didn’t belong here, picking weeds.

His eyes caught those of another slave in a row next to his, a female. She didn’t even look surprised to see a Galra weeding. In fact, her eyes didn’t have any emotions at all.

She was dead on her knees, still working.

Throk suppressed a shudder. No. That wouldn’t be him.

_I am strong. I’ll get through this. They can’t keep me here in the dirt forever. They won’t._

* * *

 

It was demoralizing how quickly he’d fallen.

At first, Throk thought he could just keep bending over and pulling at the weeds, standing up and stretching his back every once in a while. It hadn’t been so bad.

But his pack got heavier and heavier with each passing varga. He had no idea how long he’d been under that sun, but he hadn’t even gotten his lunch break before he couldn’t get back up from the weight. His knees scraped in the dirt as he dragged himself along his row, pulling at the weeds.

The weeds.

He didn’t think they’d be so difficult to pull out! It took both hands to remove them, roots and all, and he had to use much of his strength to do so. He wasn’t out of shape, but restricted like this, it was harder than basic training.

It was even more shameful that the other slaves were so far ahead of him that he could barely hear their grunts and panting. A single Sentry drone flew over the sector periodically and Throk caught himself welcoming the weak breeze its tiny rotors blew up.

The heat was unbearable. His whole suit was sticky and wet from perspiration, and he wished he didn’t have the cloth over-shirt. It was unnecessary out here!

Panting like a worn-out yupper, Throk shuffled to the next weed in the row, hearing the vacuum quickly suck up the discarded one. On its own it weighed nearly nothing, but together with its friends…

Footsteps coming toward him made Throk look up. His neck cracked with stiffness, but he managed.

Perda was trotting toward him with a small, clear flask filled with…oh, spirits, it was water!

“Here,” Perda muttered softly, holding out the flask. “It’s your turn.”

Throk took the flask and drank as much as he could. The water was cold and parched his dry throat. He hadn’t realized he was so deprived of water until he had it!

But all too quickly, it was gone. He handed the flask back to Perda, who took it with a sad look. Before Throk could snap at him to stop looking so depressed, the shifter ran off.

And Throk was left alone to his weeds.

* * *

 

Never had Throk felt so exhausted. He’d gotten lunch not long after the first water break, but it was nothing but dry cracker rations, enough for survival. They were extremely dry, which made him thirsty once more, but he got no more water until maybe three vargas later, when he’d all but swallowed his swollen tongue.

By the time the sun set, Throk was nowhere near done with his row. His limbs shook as he attempted to crawl to the next weed.

A heavy boot slammed into his vision, crushing the weed into the dust. Throk looked up, wondering how he’d not heard the approach of the large Arctic Galra before him.

Commander Varulk tapped his foot impatiently, as if waiting on something. When nothing happened, his metal leg kicked Throk in the jaw, sending the former commander to the ground.

“Much better,” Varulk snarled. “Now I don’t have to see the face of a failure. Never look at me again with that face, _D-002_.”

Throk held down the growl in his throat, concentrating on lifting himself up back to his hands and knees. It was a difficult task with the large, weed-heavy pack, but he’d managed it finally after a dobash or two.

“My, my,” Varulk sneered. “It seems you can’t handle a little weight. Are High Commanders really so out-of-shape? Pitiful.”

Before Throk could dare to retort, the commander continued, “This job suits you, though. Crawling in the dirt, pulling at weeds, slaving away under a hot sun. It’s what you deserve after failing the Empire.”

The commander looked at the unfinished work in Throk’s row and chuckled. “Looks like you didn’t finish. Oh well, you can always keep going and catch up. Or…” The commander snapped his fingers.

Instantly, a drone appeared and pulled up a weed in two tics flat. It placed the weed next to Throk, where it immediately got sucked up into his pack.

“For every weed you don’t pull by the end of the day,” Varulk announced. “You will receive a tic of _shock therapy_. I think we’re looking at several dobashes worth of shock therapy here, don’t you?”

A shiver ran down Throk’s spine, but it was hidden by the shuddering of the rest of his body, trying to hold up the ever-increasing weight as the drone continued adding weeds.

By the time the last of the weeds was sucked into the pack, Throk had been reduced to a puddle on the ground, panting and shaking. The pack was eventually removed by Sentries, but Throk remained on the dirt, ready to pass out.

He never got the chance to sleep there, though. The hum of electricity hit his ears mere tics before lightning tore through his body. Screaming in agony, Throk writhed freely on the ground.

The free movement did nothing to help him remember he wasn’t strapped to Haggar’s torture table, getting questioned about something he couldn’t remember. His eyes bulged painfully as the shocks kept going. Soon, he wasn’t moving because he thought it might help; he was moving because the electricity was forcing his limbs to spasm.

And then, it was over. In a smoking heap on the ground lay Throk, barely breathing, eyes rolled up into his head.

Varulk prodded the former commander with a foot, then shrugged. He turned to one of the Sentry bots and ordered, “Get this loser back to his barracks.”


	5. Chapter 5

Throk had been thrown unceremoniously back into the stable called Delta Barracks. Perda rushed to his side instantly, helping the Galra to sit up against a wall.

“Get away from me,” Throk snarled the moment he caught his breath. He tried to swat the kit away, but his hand was frozen, resting on his abdomen.

Perda obeyed, but didn’t go very far. “You’re hurt.”

“I’ll be fine,” Throk growled. “I’ve suffered worse.”

“Dinner will be soon,” Perda said. “They deliver it outside the barracks door.”

“Good, I’m starving.”

Dinner did come. Perda received the rations and handed Throk his share. Shakily, Throk opened his dinner box and grimaced. It was literally slop. Probably some sort of nutrient goo mixed with the officers’ leftovers. He almost refused to eat it, but after having next to nothing for lunch and literally nothing for breakfast, his stomach called for whatever he could get.

He had just finished his meal when the door swung open. Heim strode in, flanked by a single Sentry bot. Perda groveled immediately. Throk did not. He glared at the medical officer.

Heim nodded once to the Sentry bot, who walked over to Throk and held him down. Throk couldn’t struggle, not when he was still sore and weak from the day’s events.

His head was forced downward, his chin nearly touching his chest. A collar clamped around his neck, cone-like and restricting. When he was released from the Sentry’s grip, he found his chin was stuck in place hovering above his chest. A constant pressure pushed the back of his head at a downwards angle. Throk couldn’t move his head freely at all without moving the rest of his body with it! To even look up, he’d have to bend over backwards!

“Commander Varulk said he did not want to see your face next time you grovel. So, to help train you, we’ve given you a special collar. It’s all the rage at prisoner fashion galas, I’m told.” Heim gave a hum of amusement. “Soon it will become second nature for you to keep your head down, don’t worry.”

And with that, the medical officer left, taking the Sentry bot and the dinner trash with her. Perda rushed to help Throk move into a more comfortable position, but the Galra snarled again, sending the kit away.

* * *

 

The next day didn’t prove to be any better. Stiff from sleeping with the shameful collar around his neck and head, Throk had to be herded towards the Distribution Tent. He was given the pack and told a sector number and was expected to find it on his own.

Perda managed to help him find his way, at least.

Once again on his hands and knees, Throk weeded as much as he could. Once, he saw the boot of Varulk come into his vision. A laugh boomed down at him when he couldn’t lift his head past the commander’s knee.

“Much better, D-002,” came the sneering, venomous voice. “The collar suits you, as does the layer of dirt.”

At the end of the day, Throk hadn’t completed his row, and was rewarded with more _shock therapy_. It felt worse to get electrocuted without being able to move his head and neck. Much worse than being shackled to the torture chamber table back on the command ship. His back arched and his claws scraped the earth. His screams echoed across the fields.

And, after the shocks subsided, once again he was dragged to his barracks, exhausted, starving, and weak. Eating proved more of a challenge with his throat constricted like it was. Somehow, he managed. He had to keep managing. He just had to. He told himself this would all get easier.

It had to.

* * *

 

It never got easier. For the first week and a half, Throk never finished his rows on time. Every night he was reduced to nothing but a shivering pile of bones, electricity still jumping between his muscles. Every night he was unable to eat his dinner rations on his own, so Perda had to help him. Every night he was almost too weak to stand, much less walk the miles back to his straw bed.

Days dragged on. Then weeks. Throk found himself sinking lower and lower to the ground long before he was tied into his weeding pack. The anticipation of the eventual weight made him sink lower still. He lost weight—pounds he could not afford to lose, too—and when he looked at his hands, he could see they were just bones. He had no doubt he had become a walking skeleton, just like the others he’d sworn never to become.

But he couldn’t find the strength to care.

His pride was nothing but a shell, crushed under the prosthetic foot of Commander Varulk like an egg. After all those years serving Emperor Zarkon, sacrificing so much to get to where he had been…he wasn’t even considered Galra now. Just another prisoner. Another slave.

Another number.

He wanted to stay strong. Wanted to prove he was capable of taking this punishment, to make the best of it as he had when he’d been demoted to that miserable post. But after weeks of getting shocked and beaten for failing to do even a _slave’s_ job properly, he couldn’t find it in him to stay strong.

One day he came out crawling. His legs had betrayed him, and he just started shuffling to the Distribution Tent on his hands and knees without thinking about it. Perda said nothing, just stayed by his side and helped him if he fell lower. That day, when Varulk and Heim had seen him broken on the ground, the restricting collar had been removed, freeing his head and neck once more. It was a hollow victory, for his head constantly felt like it wasn’t low enough, wasn’t scraping the dirt enough…

The comments from the Commander, the medical officer, even the lower officers, were lost on him. They belittled him, harassed him, laughed at him. But he was too lost in his failure to truly hear them. He wanted nothing more than to die.

He thought he might be able to do just that. Maybe cheat the system and starve himself? Find a piece of shrapnel somewhere and just end it? It was tempting to just throw his face into one of the puddles in his little stable.

But there was something holding him back. Every time he truly and seriously thought about just ending it all himself, _something_ held him back. Was it the thought of revenge against that half-breed, Lotor? Redeeming himself when Haggar eventually came for him?

No. He found he couldn’t care less about the Empire anymore.

What really kept him going was Perda.

The little yupper turd had grown on him. For some reason, he’d stayed by Throk’s side as much as he could. He fed the former commander on nights when Throk could barely feel anything. He helped him up when he stumbled towards the Distribution Tent, and half-carried him when he was shrugged out of his weeder pack.

Throk found himself wondering how a Boggarian kit could be so _alive_ when surrounded by the walking dead. How many other prisoners had he tried to befriend, only to see them end up like Throk—dead on their feet, spirits broken? Was it some sort of gift his species had? The inability to truly die inside or feel numb?

Whatever the reason, Throk was glad the kit was there. He never said it, but he’d come to appreciate Perda’s presence and help.

Then, one day, Perda was taken away by a Sentry bot. The look on his face, the posture…it was suddenly like the kit was being sent to the gallows. He was shackled and led away quickly before he could mutter a goodbye.

Throk wanted to fight back, to go with him, but before he knew it he was shuffling off to do his work for the day. His mind screamed to go help Perda, but his body was in auto-pilot. And when someone else had given him his first water break of the day, Throk’s mind numbed completely.

The sun had set before Throk realized what he was doing. His hands were on the final weed of the day. The _last one_. He pulled with all his might and the weed came free, sucked into his pack within tics.

Footsteps crunched near him, and Throk instinctively threw his head into the dirt. He had a brief moment where he thought he should feel ashamed, but the moment passed too quickly.

“My, my, you’ve finished your row on time today.” The commander’s voice. “Well done, D-002. Looks like you’ve skipped shock therapy today.”

His pack was taken, and he was led back to his barracks by a Sentry. Not once did he look up. Even his eyes were trained on the ground. The commander had passed him once on his way back to his own quarters, forcing Throk to submit. The shame ran deep, but he no longer felt the sting.

He was alone now. Alone with his ever-drifting thoughts. Where had Perda gone? Why now?

Without Perda, Throk felt himself slipping. He didn’t know if he’d be able to keep his sanity intact without the little Boggarian in front of him, reminding him of what he used to be. Perda had shown him that once, not so long ago, he had been a Galra, born and raised to serve the Empire.

But now…now he was no longer a member of Zarkon’s court. He was no longer able to show off his bloodline proudly. He was no longer considered a Galra.

Now…he was the _weed_ in the garden, whose purpose was to be pulled away and destroyed.

The door to the barracks opened. Without hesitation, Throk laid his head in the dirt. A _thump_ sounded near him, followed by two metallic crashes.

A body and rations.

The door closed and Throk lifted his head to see who had been thrown into the barracks.

Lying on the ground was a small Galra kit, the same subspecies as Throk. He shivered and curled in on himself, whimpering.

“Perda…” Throk gasped. His emotions had suddenly returned at the sight of the Boggarian. As weak as they were, all of the previously-dead emotions at once nearly caused him to tear up. He didn’t consider the implications behind it, though. “What…what happened?”

The shifter sat up, looking at Throk with sad eyes. Across his pale face bloomed several bruises of varying sizes, and one of his eyes was swollen shut. “I’m okay,” Perda muttered with a sniffle. “This happens every month or so.”

“What does?”

“The resident Druid calls for me. He takes samples; blood, skin, etc. I think he wants to find out how I…how I work. I’m one of the last Boggarians, I think. So, he has to keep me alive as long as possible.”

Made sense. The Druids—especially Haggar—were more about experimentation. While Zarkon used his court for ruling and expanding his Empire, Haggar used hers for some other purpose. Something that felt far more sinister than just control or intimidation.

The witch and her Druids were far more terrifying to every Galra—even to Zarkon’s Inner Circle. The smallest of slip-ups would result in termination via Druid experimentation. The only reason Throk wasn’t the new Prorok was because of Lotor distracting both the Emperor and his witch.

The thought of Lotor sparked something within Throk. It made his brain tick again. His fingers moved slowly, tapping his knee every now and again. In the past few weeks, his thoughts of revenge had slowly been stamped out. He’d forgotten about his hatred for the half-breed.

He’d forgotten a lot of things in such a short span of time.

Throk gazed at his skeletal hands, his fingers now curling and uncurling with renewed and restless energy. Where had that come from? He’d been so weak for so long, extra energy should be impossible…Was it because he was thinking of a subject that caused him more pain than his current situation? Something that had ultimately resulted in this position in Hell?

He remembered feeling the searing heat of anger at the mere thought of Lotor. He recalled how disgusting it had felt to hear the Prince admonish him like a lowly Ensign.

_“In the end it was your own aggression that was your undoing.”_

Throk took a deep breath. Perhaps that _was_ true. His anger—his aggression—had caused his fall. Even here, on Nuliyue, his angry pride had only made him a target for more abuse. It had only served to break him easier.

He sat there, watching Perda slowly drift into sleep. Thoughts buzzed through his mind, but the lure of slumber blurred them, preventing him from thinking as clearly about this his present situation as he would have liked.

Finally, he curled up on his straw pile and closed his eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

The extra energy he’d felt the previous night was still present during the following day. Head low, Throk had shouldered his weeding pack and trudged to his assigned sector without showing emotion. As the day went on, Throk began to notice something strange. When Perda approached him, it was as if his energy was restored bit by bit. When he left, the energy stopped refilling.

Perda had stuck around during the last bit of the day, when Throk had pulled the last weed from his row on time. His energy—his _pride_ at being able to do something so trivial—was waxing again. In the face of Heim, who was coming to inspect Throk’s work, however, he did not show anything but submission.

The shame of groveling was returning, too, but he kept it to himself. Instead of blatantly challenging the hierarchy, he decided to try a different approach: Wait, Learn, then Strike.

It was the most basic tactic he’d been taught in Boot. It was something every field agent had ingrained into their being. However, when Throk had been promoted to the higher ranks, field work was suddenly deemed beneath him, and strategies involving many more pieces and stakes were more important. His perspective on the common soldier had shifted from ally to pawn…

Throk shook his head slightly, avoiding thinking about things that had long since passed. Instead, he focused on the here and now. He focused on what he was now, not who he had been.

Not a commander for the Empire. Not a member of Zarkon’s court. For now, he was a lowly slave, not even fit to lick the boot of a _half-breed_ Galra. But, if he played his cards right, he wouldn’t be a slave for long.

“Do you intend to get on their good side?” Perda asked that evening, after Throk had shared his intentions to rise up. He seemed skeptical, and rightfully so. “Brown-nose your way back into the ranks?”

Throk scoffed. “Certainly not. I’m no longer considered Galra according to the Empire. They denied me my own rights and have left me here on this miserable rock to rot. I want nothing more to do with their ranks.”

“Then what _do_ you want?”

A smirk played on his lips. “Revolution.”

The shifter’s eyes widened, his kit-like ears perking up. “What? You want to _rebel_? How could you do that here, with so many soldiers and sentries? Heim and Varulk wouldn’t allow you to get very far!”

“I don’t mean right this second,” Throk huffed. “Revolution takes _time_. It needs an army.”

Perda grimaced. “But...we’re not an army. We’re just two people.”

Throk grinned. “But we can become more. How many slaves populate this moon?”

“I don’t know.”

“Would you say they outnumber the Empire soldiers—excluding the bots and drones?”

“Excluding?” Perda tilted his head a bit. “Yes. There are way more slaves than soldiers. But the sentries and drones make it an unfair fight.”

The former commander nodded. “Yes, they would, but not if they’re deactivated.”

“Can you do that to a Sentry?”

A knocking silenced them. Perda scrambled to the door, taking his and Throk’s dinner rations with a bowed head.

“We’ll talk about the Sentries later,” Throk said, his mouth full of slop. “Right now, we just need to plan for the other slaves. You deliver water to them, yes?”

Perda nodded silently.

“And you can see they’re treated just as harshly as us? Perhaps even more so, since they don’t have to be kept alive.”

Another nod.

“Are you allowed to talk with them?”

“Nothing beyond ‘here’s your water’ and stuff like that,” Perda answered.

Throk hummed in thought. “Perhaps we can test the waters of just how much you can say.”

Perda shook his head. “I don’t want to get anyone in trouble just because I _talked_ to them too much!”

“Do you want to be free or not?” Throk growled.

The Boggarian lowered his head.

“Then remember that we need _allies_ in order to revolt. And to get allies, I need _you_ to actually talk to them. I can’t do it from where I am. As it stands, I can barely look up to meet another prisoner’s eyes.”

“Okay…I’ll try.”

Throk gave a huff of approval. “Find a strong slave on your route. Try to say more than just _here’s your water_. Wake them up from their stupor.”

Perda nodded, finishing his slop in silence.

* * *

 

The next few days, Perda scuttled around trying to talk to the other slaves. Most of them were so dead inside that they couldn’t react beyond taking a drink. Some still had life within them and were confused at Perda’s attempts to initiate conversation.

Throk kept his eyes peeled for anyone in his sector that looked less dead than the others. Today he was weeding on a cliff face, and was able to look down on another sector as well as his own. He spotted what seemed to be an Unilu female harvesting the wheatgrass with a scythe in each hand. Around her top shoulders were large, brick-shaped weights, which Throk assumed were to help weigh her down in case she decided to attack someone.

Other harvesters near her had similar weights, and they all moved in sync with one another to ensure maximum efficiency. Throk stared a moment more, wondering _why_ slaves were needed, when drones—like the one that had pulled the weeds when he couldn’t finish—could _easily_ do the job quicker?

Why keep prisoners that were too weak to become gladiators, and too common to become Druid experiments? Why not just kill them?

Throk kept pondering this, but happened to do it slightly too long. A young Galra soldier, a sector guard on patrol, saw him gazing out and pressed a button on his tablet.

Instantly, Throk was shocked and sent spiraling to the ground. The weight of his pack added to the pain as he crashed headfirst into the dirt to try and dull the electricity pain weaving its way through his body.

When it was over, he heard the young soldier call out, “D-002, get back to work!”

Panting heavily, Throk begrudgingly obeyed. Though his head was down, his eyes kept travelling, looking for potential first allies.

So far, he’d spotted three relatively healthy slaves, the Unilu female included. There was a red, lizard-like alien that was tasked with splitting wood and hauling it elsewhere. He had a stump where Throk assumed a tail should be. The other candidate was an older female; she was a small alien that looked like the recently-liberated scientist Slav, but light blue in color and far less fidgety. She was another weeder in Throk’s group, faster and more efficient than him with her multiple arms.

They all seemed strong physically, but Throk couldn’t get close enough to any of them to judge their mental stability.

Perda had found a few slaves of sound enough mind that could respond to him. Most of them were harvesters. Weeders, he said, had one of the worst jobs. Weeding could break the strongest of creatures if it was done for long enough.

Throk understood that completely.

“I’ve found a few harvesters that appreciated me speaking to them,” Perda said after a week and a half of observation. “I can’t speak for very long, but even a few words makes them perk up a little.”

“That’s good,” Throk muttered approvingly. “Keep talking to them, find out names if they remember them.”

“Okay.”

“Now, I’ve got another job for you,” Throk continued.

The Boggarian’s ears perked up. “You do?”

“It’s time you learned how to shift _all_ the way.”


	7. Chapter 7

"I want you to concentrate."

Perda squeezed his eyes shut, rigid as a stone. "I...I'm trying."

"What do you keep getting hung up on?"

"I don't know," the kit wailed. "I don't know how this works! I've never known!"

Throk slapped him lightly on the back of the head. "It's because no one's taught you! I know for a fact that Boggarians can transform at will. I've _seen_ it happen! You keep forming a link with me, don't you?"

"Yeah, but..." Perda lowered his head, eyes still shut. "...I don't want to."

Throk's annoyance flared. The shifter winced. Good. "Yes, there! You felt that, right? My anger at you?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Focus on it."

"I am. But I don't know what to do with it." Throk put a finger to his chin. What _did_ they do with it? The Boggarians he'd seen had said they formed a link. But what made them actually transform freely? What was stopping Perda at kit-level?

"Let's try this: focus on two things. Focus on me and the link."

"Isn't that what I've--?" Perda yelped when Throk slapped him again.

"I meant, focus on your memory of my face. You've seen it so much now it must be engraved in your memory. Imagine it as _your_ face."

"My face?"

"Yes. Like you were looking in a mirror. Associate that image with the link. Make your body _think_ that's what you're supposed to look like."

"But you're so big, though," Perda protested. "I'm still a kid."

Throk growled, his anger rising again. "Being a kid didn't exclude you from being sent here. It didn't exclude you from being dragged to the Druids every month for research. As far as I'm concerned, you stopped being a kid the moment you got taken."

A tear fell out of Perda's still-shut eye. Throk wondered if he'd gone a little too far, but shook it away. Perda was treated like an adult here, so he should get into that mindset sooner rather than later.

"Cry about it later," he snarled. "For now, focus on becoming an adult Galra."

It took a minute, but Perda stopped sniffling long enough to sit still and concentrate. The kit groaned suddenly, and before Throk's eyes began to grow. The kit's face sharpened, the ears shrank just a tad, and his limbs began to stretch. He nearly looked like an adolescent Throk before he cried out in pain.

The shifter shrank back into kit form and hunched over, panting. He shivered, and Throk knew the shifter was crying silently to himself.

"I guess it hurts," he muttered.

Perda lifted his head to glare at him. "Y-yes," he stammered. "It hurts! You try stretching your body to twice its normal height!"

Throk winced in sympathy. Growing pains were tremendous to Galra, especially to some like him, who reached heights close to Emperor Zarkon.

"I think that's enough for today," he finally said. "You did well, though."

"I did?"

"Don't act surprised. Shifting is a natural thing for you Boggarians. You made it all the way to adolescence before you quit."

Perda suddenly looked quite proud. "I...I didn't think I was that far. Are you sure?"

"I remember looking into a mirror and seeing that grunge mess of a Galra every day for the better half of a century. You got halfway on your first try."

The shifter smiled. "T-Thank you."

Throk wasn't really a fan of _complimenting_ failure. The old mantra, Victory or Death, kept repeating in his head over and over. He had to tell himself it wasn't like that anymore.

He stood up, stretching the kinks out of his legs. "They'll be calling lights-out soon," he announced. "Get to your bed. We'll work on this again tomorrow evening."

"I hope I can move tomorrow."

The kit burrowed his way into his straw pile before Throk could counter. Throk watched as the Boggarian slipped easily into sleep.

He settled onto his pile, still wide awake. He thought back to what he'd said to Perda after he'd failed to transform all the way. He'd... _complimented_ the kit. Told him he'd done a good job, even though he clearly hadn't finished it.

If Perda had been an Ensign under his command, Throk would have punished him severely for only doing a half-assed job. Either you completed the job or you didn't, there were no excuses. There was no room for failure in the Empire, and that was that.

So, why did complimenting come so naturally? Why did he comfort the kit when he should have yelled? Had he grown _soft_ in confinement?

Probably, he realized. He sat up, rubbing his temples. Thoughts of failures and successes still rattled on in his head. They were so muddled up now...He didn't know what he wanted anymore...


	8. Chapter 8

Life went on like that for the next few weeks. At night, Throk oversaw Perda’s development into a better shifter. During the day, Perda would speak quietly with his fellow slaves, many of which he reported seemed to get slightly stronger by the day.

“I don’t know why they’re suddenly getting better,” Perda said.

Throk knew. He’d contemplated enough about it throughout the weeks. “It’s because of you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. It’s got something to do with those empathic abilities of yours,” Throk explained. “When you speak with the others, are you transforming into them?”

“Well, yes, but not on purpose…”

“That means you’re forming a link with them. Your empathic link is going _two_ ways, Perda. While you use their emotions to gain the energy to shift, _your_ emotions are filtering to them. It’s like a cycle; you give them a piece of your emotions, your _energy_ , to remind them unconsciously that they are alive, and they subsequently give what they have to you.”

“I never thought of it that way,” Perda mused.

“Possibly because your people never shifted into beings with such extreme levels of low energy to notice how exactly it works.”

Throk looked at the door to their stable, contemplating. “It also explains how you’ve been so much more alive than everyone else here. Especially after the Druid takes…”

The Druid.

_Quiznak_. He’d forgotten about the damn Druid. How in the name of Zarkon was he supposed to take down a Druid?

“New question,” Throk started. “Where is the Druid that takes you? Does he have a separate lab somewhere on this moon?”

Perda tilted his head. “Well…Usually they drag me into the main base, where all the soldiers are stationed. We go down some halls and end up maybe a few rooms past the loading bay, but I’ve never paid _that_ much attention to it.”

Next to the loading bay made total sense. Throk remembered the Druids had one of their labs near there for quintessence cargo testing and storage. If the Druid was near the loading bay, he would have access to new shipments and immediate claim to prisoners.

“How are we gonna take the Druid?” Perda asked, fear in his voice.

Throk put a finger to his chin in thought. “Honestly, I don’t know. Before this decaphoebs I hadn’t even thought they could be _killed_. But recently…” _Voltron—the Paladins—took down many of the Druids on Zarkon’s command ship,_ and _at one of the communications hubs._ “Recently, I came into some information stating they could, at least, get taken down. Let me think on it a little longer. For now, we need to worry about the other slaves.”

* * *

 

Stage Two of the plan was put in motion the next morning. Perda began putting ideas of revolt into the slaves’ heads, causing their eyes to brighten more. Some slaves—ones previously thought to be too dead to care—caught their breaths in small gasps at the mention of freedom.

Throk had similar luck. He stayed in range of the female Slav, waiting for the guards and Sentries to pass before whispering, “Good morning.”

The female weeder did not pause in her work, didn’t even look up. But she did return a curt, “Hello.”

Throk decided to waste no time. “Revolution is on the horizon. I am in need of your services.”

She still did not hesitate pulling her weeds. Throk had to move just a bit faster than normal to keep up with her. “Why should I believe you? This could be a test.”

Throk had honestly not thought about slaves _rejecting_ his offer because he was a Galra. He shook his head; it was just another hurdle. He could easily jump it if he was careful with his words. “Why would this be a test? I’ve been here for a while now. I have chip in my forehead, a weeding unit on my back, and torture scars deep enough to make a psychiatrist shudder. If I was testing you, I wouldn’t look like _this_.”

The alien chose that moment to look up. Her eyes darted quickly over his normally-large stature, rendered small and weak by the same monsters that held her captive. He knew she was taking in his skeletal appearance, the gem-like chip protruding from his forehead, the sunken eyes that hardly glowed like they used to. He was nothing like the High Commander he used to be, and even she could see that.

She squinted at him. “How do I know I can trust you, though? Even if this isn’t a test, why should I join a revolution spearheaded by a _Galra_?”

“Because there’s nothing for you to lose in doing so. Join up, and you’ll either die an honorable death fighting for your freedom and making your ancestors proud, or you’ll live a free life once more, in glory and victory. Either way, it’s better than dying a slave with little more worth than the weeds she pulls.”

She paused. She looked down at her light blue hands, all of them holding a weed or a piece of one. A guard was walking by right at that moment, but he wasn’t paying any attention to her. He was staring at Throk, who had not paused in his work except to scratch his nose. The guard left a bit later, fingering the remote in his hand as he walked away.

After a few tics, the female weeder continued her weeding and sighed. “I’m assuming you have a plan?”

“At the moment, we’re in the recruiting stage.”

“You don’t have a plan?”

“I have _ideas_ ,” he admitted. “But I need people to officially join up before I can set things in motion.”

The female seemed to consider this, though she hadn’t stopped working again. Eventually, she looked up and caught Throk’s eye. Her gaze was hard and sure. “I’m in.”

Throk smiled. “Welcome to the revolution. I’m Throk.”

“Jari.”


	9. Chapter 9

Throk was finding success at every turn when it came to recruiting more slaves for the revolution. Names began pouring in from Perda’s side, and Throk and Jari were waking up the weeders one-by-one.

Throk’s most sought-after candidates had all joined his party, and Perda had given him the names of the Unilu and the lizard alien: Cera and Artyom, respectively. They had been more than eager to join the revolution, even with the knowledge that a Galra was leading it.

Now that they had more people joining the fight, their plans weren’t restricted to just Delta Barracks. Jari, Cera, and Artyom were all housed in separate barracks, none of which were heavily fortified with cameras or mics. Throk didn’t know the layout of their barracks, but the few descriptions he had of Whiskey Barracks, courtesy of Jari, made him remember usual prisoner congregation cells from the Fleets. The cells had one camera but no bugs, and he assumed the same could be said about the Barracks (sans Delta).

It was the perfect place to commune and conspire, and to gain followers of their cause. The three slaves Throk had chosen would be his ambassadors for the other Barracks, and his generals for their steadily-growing revolutionary army. Perda would be his liaison between himself and Cera and Artyom.

Everyone wanted to know Throk’s plan. They were itching for a fight already, even though they were still very weak from work. Perda’s constant influence was strengthening them, but that got them only so far.

One morning, on his way to the distribution tent, Throk was considering stealing rations for Jari and some other weeders when he was roughly shoved to the ground.

Two young officers were holding Throk down and cuffing his hands behind him. He didn’t struggle, though every instinct told him to do just that.

“D-002,” one of the officers—a member of the more reptilian Galra subspecies—snapped lightly. He was trying to act tough, but Throk could tell he didn’t want to do this. “You have been summoned by the resident Druid. Come quietly or face punishment.”

Throk walked silently and obediently between the two young officers. He would be punished either way, but at least this way he could see where he was going. He memorized the paths as soon as they entered the compound, taking note of every entrance and room they passed.

The sound of a sliding door caused him to glance down one of the halls. A split second of seeing servers in a room was all Throk needed to know that was one of the main hubs for either the command center or Sentry servers.

Either way, it had a purpose. And that purpose was eventual shutdown.

Soon after that, Throk and the officers made their way into a large chamber filled with experiment jars, alchemy sets, and various dead, vivisected, creatures. A large slab, much like the one he’d been shackled to on Zarkon’s Command Ship, took up the back half of the room.

Before he could react, Throk’s bonds were cut and he was pushed onto the slab. Once again, he was spread-eagled, but the slab he was on was much larger than the one on the command ship, so he actually _fit_ on it.

The two officers glanced around and shuddered in fear. One said, “H-Here’s the…the ex-commander y-you ordered.”

They darted out of the room without getting confirmation that the Druid was even there.

Throk waited a few tics, then let out a breath. He supposed this was inevitable. Perhaps the Druid had to go through some Red Tape to request experimentation on Throk? Or Haggar had come to continue the torture sessions?

“Commander Throk,” echoed a voice. Its breathy tone sent shivers down Throk’s spine. “Or, I suppose it’s _Ex-Commander_ Throk, now.”

Suddenly, the bird-like mask was right in front of Throk’s face, looking down on him without emotion. “Do you even remember your name, though? Who you used to be? I’m told you’ve become quite a shell of your former self.”

Throk swallowed. _Number_ , he thought. _The number is my identity here. Remember that._

The mask looked away. “Haggar has contacted me recently. You remember her, right? She told me I have free rein with you, now, as the situation with Lotor has escalated. Your services to her are no longer required.”

Throk broke out in a cold sweat.

“I could vivisect you,” the Druid continued. “But where’s the fun in that?”

A vial floated into his hand. It contained a glowing liquid.

“So, I’ve decided to use you as a guinea pig. I need a Galra subject to test my theories, but there were understandably no volunteers. Apparently no one wants to willingly sign up to receive injections and swallow vials containing Boggarian blood. Good thing I’ve got a new toy to play with. One whose chip will automatically prevent total death.”

He grabbed Throk’s jaw with his empty, cold hand. It forced Throk to open his mouth wide. “Say ‘ahh.’”

* * *

 

Throk came into consciousness very slowly and _very_ painfully. His limbs felt like they’d been stretched, his head was as heavy as lead, and his insides heaved and shifted as if he were throwing up.

Oh, wait, he _was_ throwing up. He was sitting up, heaving into a bucket. A small hand was tracing circles on his back.

Sound returned to him. He heard Perda’s voice trying to soothe him. “Let it all out. That’s it.”

Throk wiped his mouth, still shaking and feeling heavy. “Wh….What h-happened…?” His voice was small and weak, barely audible.

“The guards carried you in here,” Perda told him. “They said the Druid had been experimenting on you all day.”

Throk tried to hold himself upright longer, but the thought of sleeping on his straw piled beckoned him. He sank down, exhausted. His eyes closed for a few tics as he struggled to breathe deeply.

“Do I…” he stammered. “Do I look…different?”

Perda shook his head. “You were blueish when they threw you in here, but it faded a while ago.

Throk opened his eyes blearily. “He used…Boggarian blood…in his experiments. He wants…to…do something with your blood…your DNA…something to Galra. Possibly…create a stronger breed…”

Perda looked absolutely horrified. “I’m so sorry, Throk! I didn’t know he was doing that!”

“Not…your fault.” Throk’s breaths were deeper now, and he’d grown wearier.

“It kinda is, since I’m the Boggarian the blood belongs to,” Perda admitted sadly.

Throk took a hand and weakly batted the kit’s face. Not much of a slap, but it was enough to keep the shifter from breaking down. Despite his exhaustion, Throk kept speaking. “News on the others?”

Perda perked up at the change in subject. “Jari reported that all the weeders in her barracks, along with a few gatherers, are on our side. Cera and Artyom have similar reports.”

“Good.”

“Artyom also reported something interesting,” Perda said in a more hushed tone.

“Oh?” Throk shifted a little, intrigued. “Define ‘interesting’.”

Suddenly, a large reptilian face came into view. Throk nearly yelped in surprise when he realized all three of his makeshift generals were in Delta Barracks!

Artyom grinned. “We all thought it was time to talk to you personally.”


	10. Chapter 10

Throk hadn’t considered sewers below the slave barracks to be a place of congregation. He also hadn’t expected the nearing horizon of revolution to spur the slaves of other barracks to start going underground for secret meetings _regarding_ that revolution.

“It was Artyom who found the sewers in the first place,” Cera explained. They were still inside Delta Barracks, as it had no cameras or mics, and Throk was still too weak from the Druid’s torture session.

“Last night I followed where the water drained,” the lizard—his kind were called Verla—told them. “The vents that led below the barracks were small, so I made them bigger and _ventala!_ I was in.”

“Someone will notice a giant hole in the ground,” Throk challenged.

“One of my bunkmates has a special camouflage saliva,” Artyom countered. “I put the chunk back, he covered up the area around it.”

Throk made a mental note about that alien. “So you did this with the other barracks?”

Cera shrugged. “Jari and I are actually small enough to squeeze through the vents if we unscrew them.”

Perda stood up and trotted over to a corner of the stable. He swept away a pile of wet straw to reveal a hole in the ground where a vent used to be. “We had one too,” Perda informed Throk. “We just never knew. And ours was so rusty it couldn’t open, so no one’s actually looked at the upkeep or condition of the vent in ages!”

Throk was impressed. “What an outstanding development! Perhaps getting this revolution underway won’t be so difficult after all.”

Jari crossed all her arms with a huff. “ _Meeting up_ won’t be difficult, but what about actually getting something _done_ besides talking? We can’t do anything during the day, and we’re all nearly dead on our feet at night.”

“I agree,” Artyom said with a nod. “Though we all want freedom, hardly any of us have the strength to fight for it.”

Throk sat up a little straighter. His own strength was returning, enough to keep him awake. “We need to begin preparations for the fight. The first step is upping rations for everyone.” He turned to Cera. “Do you know what happens to the products you harvest?”

Cera tilted her head. “I just reap. I don’t do inventory.”

“I do.” All eyes turned to Artyom. “I drag my supplies to the nearest inventory stations. There are Galra there that count everything out meticulously.”

“Which stands to reason they would notice if slave rations began to dwindle faster than usual,” Cera finished.

Jari hummed in thought. “I’ve been told that our weeds are not inventoried, merely sent to an incinerator.”

Throk pursed his lips. “It’s not an ideal thought, but could the weeds be edible?”

No one spoke. Everyone had various degrees of disgust and surprise on their faces.

Eventually, Throk continued. “We don’t get searched after our shifts. The weeds don’t get inventoried. If we found a way to cook them, perhaps make something from them, we could gain more energy.”

“That’s _if_ the weeds are edible,” Jari grumbled.

“Anything’s better than _just_ slop,” Artyom growled back. “The _dirt_ would sound good to me if someone told me it was edible.”

“It won’t come to that,” Throk said. _Hopefully_.

“What about weapons?” Perda piped up. “The harvesters have their scythes, but only during the day when they’re weighed down.”

“And weeders get no tools, period,” Jari finished.

Throk turned to Artyom. “How far into the sewers did you explore?”

“Far enough to find some entrances into the other barracks,” the Verla answered. “I have yet to go deeper.”

“When I was taken to the Druid,” Throk explained, “I found out where a server room was located. That room is either for the station’s computers or the Sentries. If it’s for the Sentries…we may have the boost to gain the upper hand long enough to raid the weapons stores.”

“We destroy the Sentry servers?” Cera inquired.

“No. We use the servers to _reprogram_ them.” Throk grinned. “To fight, to break down, it doesn’t matter. As long as they don’t fight back against _us_.”

The others nodded in agreement.

* * *

 

Their talk continued a little bit longer. They had to call off the meeting when Throk began to slip into unconsciousness.

The next day, Throk took a few weeds he’d pulled and stuffed them into his uniform (in a creative area he’d rather not disclose). Jari did the same.

That night, long after lights out, Throk and Perda ventured into the sewers. They met up with Throk’s generals, as well as a few other stronger slaves. Some brought tiny amounts of scrounged-up scraps they’d found while working, Artyom and some of the other wood splitters had brought stripped bark from the wood they’d hauled.

The weeds were the main ingredient, being the most abundant. Through some _really_ creative alchemy with the weeds, some of the bark, straw from the barracks, and cleaner sewer water, they’d made something edible. Whether it would give the revolutionary army the boost they needed was still up for debate, but at least they had _something_ besides slop.

The next few nights were all about exploration of the sewers. Mere escape was not a welcome option, as Nuliyue was a very small moon with very few places to hide outside of the plantation area. So, while they did look for escape routes, most of their efforts were turned inward toward the main base.

Restroom pipes, kitchen vents, _anything_ and _everything_ was documented on the sewer walls. Throk kept carving out an ever-growing map in the center of the sewers, where they’d set up their base of operations.

Perda had begun shifting into various other prisoners, not just Throk. Only now, he was concentrating on becoming the adult versions, and not the child ones. His strength was returning, as was his confidence in his abilities. More than once, Perda had approached Throk as a fully-grown Cera, and Throk almost hadn’t recognized him. The giveaway was the Druid chip on his forehead, something he couldn’t remove or hide when transforming.

A small workout regime was set up for the weaker slaves. Nothing huge, just some abdominal exercises and leg workouts to help them regain muscle mass. Though initially sore the following days, the slaves became stronger, more active at night, and much more supportive of the cause.

Within a few weeks, the revolutionary army was steadily gaining the strength it needed. Plans, backup plans, and backup plans for the backup plans were devised. Maps of literally every space reachable from the sewers were drawn.

And the Galra were none the wiser. With the slaves exhausted from the nights’ planning and training, it was like nothing had changed during the day.

Everything was falling into place.

Now all they needed was for the Druid to summon Throk once more.


	11. Chapter 11

It didn’t take long for the Druid to request Throk.

Perda had been summoned twice in one week, and the following week it was Throk’s turn. He had no idea _why_ the Druid was suddenly feeling the need to request his subjects more frequently; perhaps it was because Haggar no longer had a claim on Throk, thus allowing for more experiments.

Whatever the case, Throk was summoned. With his summons, everything would be set in motion.

Throk was taken to the Druid by the same two young officers, who seemed to be even more on-edge than usual. They were worried about something, and it wasn’t the Druid or Throk. The ex-commander wondered what it could be that had them so spooked. They’d even put him in a forward handcuffed position, instead of locking them behind his back like before.

He only spent a few tics wondering that, though. Soon, they were alone a few hallways away from the Druid’s lab. Perfect.

Throk straightened abruptly to his actual height and suddenly slammed a shoulder into one of the soldiers. The shock of the attack caused major hesitation, something Throk immediately took advantage of. He mule-kicked the other soldier. The chip remote slid across the floor in the commotion.

When the first officer regained his balance, pulling out a sword, Throk was ready. The former commander roundhouse kicked the sword out of his hand, rolling with the momentum to dodge an attack from the second officer. The second officer had also pulled his sword out, but hadn’t expected Throk to dodge his attack. Instead of stabbing Throk in the back, he’d cleaved his fellow soldier clean through his armor.

Using the untimely death as a distraction, Throk sliced through his bonds with the discarded sword. He picked up the weapon and sparred with the remaining soldier for only a few tics. The officer had not seen many battles, and Throk had faced _much_ worse odds. He felled the officer after a few swings and stood frozen to the spot.

He waited for an alarm to go off, for the plan to go south. But the halls were silent, no one was screaming or shooting at him. He dragged the bodies to the nearest broom closet and stuffed them inside.

Placing his arms and the swords behind his back, Throk quickly made his way to the Druid’s lab. Going over the maps in his head a hundred times, he made it to the lab with relative ease. The door opened and he made himself as small as possible to fool the Druid.

“Ah, good, you’ve arrived.”

The serpent-like voice did nothing to scare Throk, though it still sent a shiver up his spine. He gazed around the lab, hoping to get the jump on the Druid before he knew what hit him.

Apparently, the Druid had the same idea.

“I was wondering what took you so long, Throk,” the voiced hissed in his ear.

Throk jumped to the side, narrowly missing the bolt of dark magic shot at him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the telltale robes flying around. Dodging the various shots fired at him, Throk ran out into the corridor.

The Druid followed. Throk dove through the halls, avoiding the Druid’s magic and insults. Once or twice he tried to swipe at the Druid, but he hit nothing but air.

Alarms began to go off, the hall lights flashing red. Someone was yelling over an intercom, but their voice didn’t even concern him. Throk finally skidded into the hall that contained the server room he’d seen on his first visit. From all the explorations, he and his generals had determined this server room to be the one controlling the main computer systems and communications hub. The room designated for Sentries and drones was on the other side of the base.

Which was perfect.

Throk put his hand on the print lock. Because he was Galra, it automatically accepted his signature and allowed him access. He dove inside, the Druid on his heels.

Dark magic flew everywhere, hitting the servers and destroying them. Throk sliced through the ones the Druid didn’t hit. The main server generator—the crystal engine for the whole room—sat in the back. Get rid of that, and even the backup servers in a separate location wouldn’t run. A normal sword wouldn’t destroy it, but…Maybe he could hit two birds with one stone…

He ran the possibilities through his head over and over. Any other creature, he would have a chance at fighting and winning through close combat. But a Druid wasn’t a normal opponent. Throk wasn’t fast enough to take one down. He didn’t know how the Paladins had defeated several at a time, either, so he was winging it.

Throk turned on his heel to face his enemy. Clearly this Druid was not experienced in battle. Throk could tell even through the birdlike mask that the Druid was acting on emotions. He was angry. He was flailing, shooting bolts of magic everywhere. He was _desperate_.

“So, you finally grew a backbone,” the Druid taunted. “Too bad for you!”

He hurled an especially huge bolt Throk’s way. The former commander held his breath. Time seemed to slow down to a crawl. The bolt, dark and cold and deadly, came at him head-on, threatening immediate death upon impact.

It was only a foot away before Throk dove to the side and out of its way. The bolt streaked past, taking a few hairs from his twin tails with it.

The Druid must have realized where the bolt was heading, because he waved his arms trying to move it. But it was too late. The bolt hit the crystal engine with enough force to punch through the hull of a ship.

The room exploded.

* * *

 

_Dobashes ago_

LT Heim walked into Central Command, finishing off a nutrition bar as her breakfast. She respectfully nodded at Commander Varulk, standing in the center of the room tapping at his screens.

“Emperor Zarkon has made contact with the Paladins,” Varulk informed her as she made her way to her seat. “An exchange of hostages.”

“Really?” she asked. “Who?”

“Voltron has Lotor. We have some old scientist that interests the Paladins.”

Heim snorted. What a pathetic trade on Voltron’s part. The former prince was a far better prize than some crusty alien scientist.

She was about to retort when one of the screens began flashing in front of her. It was a security camera, showing their personal Druid chasing… _Quiznak_.

It was former Commander Throk, himself; unbound and brandishing two swords!

Heim slammed her fist on the intercom, immediately yelling, “Red alert! Red alert! Prisoner D-002 is loose in P-Way 56-972-Gamma! Prisoner D-002 is _loose_ in P-Way 56-972-Gamma! All inside personnel and Sentries prepare for interception and immediate annihilation! Outside personnel, Sentries, and drones, round up all prisoners and return them to their barracks. This is not a drill!”

She placed her palm on one of the screen’s buttons. The alarms began to go off and lockdown mode engaged.

“How did he escape custody?” Varulk demanded.

“I don’t know, Sir,” Heim confessed. “He was supposed to be escorted by two guards to the Druid for experimentation today. No sign of those guards.”

Varulk squinted at the scenes now displayed on the big screens in the front of the room. A thoughtful look crossed his face.

“He’s running somewhere, not just away from the Druid…where is he going?”

“Calculating,” one of the Sentries called.

A map popped up, showing the path Throk was taking. Multiple possible paths popped up, each with a different destination, but one end caught Heim’s attention. She stood up abruptly.

“He’s heading for Server Room One!” she yelled.

“Then go get him!” Varulk howled. “Out of any prisoner, he’s the one that knows what the server room means!”

Heim stumbled out from her area and sprinted toward the door, two drones following her.

“Recalculating.”

Heim halted. She glanced at the huge screen, now showing a different sector. Throk was running through a hallway on the other side of the base!

“How did he get there?”

_BOOM!_

An explosion shook the command center, knocking Heim off balance. She leaned against the wall to keep from falling over.

The whole room went dark, except for emergency lights. The screens were down, completely black. Keyboards sparked from the cutoff. Some stations began to smoke.

Varulk slammed his fist down on his console. “Dammit! That quiznaking son of a runkle! He cut the power to Server Room One!”

He pointed at Heim. “Get over there and kill that failure!”

“What about the sighting at the other end of the base?”

“I’ll check it out myself.”

Heim rushed down the hall, two Sentries and three drones flanking her. Other soldiers were scrambling around, trying to lock down spaces and get weapons distributed. Heim barked orders at them as quickly as she could when she passed. She eventually surrendered her own Sentries and drones to help get everything organized and running smoothly.

Finally, she came to the hall that contained Server Room One. Or…rather it _had_ contained Server Room One. Now there was just a charred mess. Bits and pieces of the servers hung from the ceiling, were shot through the walls, and scattered across the floor. Heim noticed crystal shards among the servers.

“Quiznak,” she cursed. Then, into her suit comm link, she reported, “Throk blew up Server Room One.”

She spotted a piece of material fluttering beneath one of the bigger server pieces. It was a Druid robe.

“He took the Druid down with him.”

_“Then he must have gotten a hold of some sort of teleporting crystal in the Druid’s lab,”_ Varulk said over their link. “ _That explains the sudden sighting right before the explosion.”_

Heim kicked a piece of rubble. Teleportation crystal? She’d never heard of such a thing. Then again, it could explain how the Druids got around.

“I’m heading to you, Commander,” Heim said. “I’ll be there in— _ack_!”

Two swords were now poking out through her abdomen. Each of them sliced cleanly through her vitals. The moment they came out, she was dead.

In her peripherals, a sharp-featured face smiled darkly. “Don’t worry,” Throk purred. “Soon it’ll be second nature to keep your head down.”

Her legs were kicked out from under her. Heim fell forward, the swords—unmoving—sliding cleanly on their way out as they had on their way in. Her knees hit the ground first, followed by the now-released blood. The last thing she saw before she slumped to the ground permanently was Throk, battered and bruised, picking his way through the wreckage.

He didn’t spare her a final glance.


	12. Chapter 12

Throk felt like his whole body was on fire after that explosion. Somehow, he’d been able to get clear of the blast before it killed him. He had no idea how he’d done it. He was just thankful that one of the servers had fatally slammed into the Druid. He didn’t have a contingency plan…

He shook his head, then shook out the soreness in his limbs. He’d been in much worse pain.

_Keep telling yourself that_ , he thought to himself. _Maybe one day it won’t be a lie._

He kept to corners and shadows, waiting for soldiers and drones to pass. He needed to get to the meet-up point, but it wouldn’t do to bring the whole damn base with him.

Good thing he wasn’t the only prisoner running through the halls.

* * *

 

“Heim, report. Your last transmission was cut off.”

Varulk stomped through the halls, heading for the area where Throk was seen last. On the opposite end of the base.

The distance wasn’t that far, not to a commander like him, who knew his base inside and out. But the more time he wasted, the further away Throk could be.

“Heim?” he yelled through the comm link. “Heim!”

The lack of a response was concerning, but he couldn’t stop. He had to make it to—

As if summoned, a gangly shape skidded past the end of the hall. Throk.

Varulk snarled in rage. “You! Get back here!”

* * *

 

Throk waited until the last of the soldiers left the hallway, then sprinted for the doorway he wanted. This was the closest entrance to the sewers, a bathroom.

He opened a vent over one of the toilets, tucked his swords close to his body, and crawled inside. Eventually the ventilation system made a steep turn downward, so he slid all the way down.

He crashed through the grate at the bottom and into the sewer system. The rest of the slaves were already gathering around him.

Artyom walked over and helped Throk up. “You were right,” he said gleefully. “They rounded us up and locked us in our barracks. No guards even checked if we were staying there.”

“They’re so sure that you won’t have the energy to fight back that they won’t even _consider_ that possibility,” Throk stated. “A Galra’s pride is his weakness.”

“You would know,” grumbled one of the weeders.

“I would,” Throk confirmed. “Is Jari on her way?”

“Yes.”

Cera held a drone in her hand, one that was struggling to escape. Jari had been tasked with either reprogramming the Sentry Servers or just destroying them. It was far easier than taking the Sentries one at a time and risk exposure.

“How long has she been gone?” Throk questioned.

“About five dobashes,” Cera said. “She should be there right now.”

“Good. And Perda?”

“Not here.”

Throk grinned. “Perfect. Get to your stations. The moment our drone turns or shuts down, we act.”

* * *

 

Jari could not have been more stressed. Her species was prone to fragile minds, especially when put under intense stress, but she’d held on to her sanity for the sake of the cause. She had to do this, one way or another.

To get into the server room, Jari had to wait for a soldier to open the door. Thankfully, a patrol came by and one announced to the others that the room needed to be checked regularly. “One server room is down, and we need this one to remain up,” he’d said.

The moment the door was open and the soldier had stepped through, Jari took her chance. She quickly slid through when the others weren’t looking and stayed out of sight. Within a dobash, the soldier had left, and Jari was alone in the server room.

The first server she tried resulted in failure, and it set on fire from overheating. So, she let it burn and continued onward. Eventually, she knew which wires went where, and how to override the commands. Constantly on guard, she had to hide when the doors slid open.

Finally, she found the main server connector. She knew if she rewired this or shut it down, the others she hadn’t reached yet would follow suit. If she managed to reprogram it, it would automatically sync up with the others she _had_ reached and reboot everything at once. If it didn’t work, she’d have to reboot all of those reprogrammed servers one a time. Rebooting them as she went would alert the entire base of the sabotage, so it needed to be all at once. One by one was the last resort.

She worked like mad, her many hands flying across the main server connector. Even her prehensile feet were at work as she held herself up by her thick tail.

Jari was so engrossed in her work that she didn’t hear the door sliding open.

“Hey! Stop right there!”

Jari glanced backwards and groaned. It was an officer and two Sentries. All of them had guns trained on her. She kept up the rewiring as quickly as she could.

Shots made her flinch.

“I won’t ask again, slave. Stop what you’re doing this instant!”

One more wire. There!

She held up her hands and looked at the officer. His gun was still locked on to her. He looked ready to pull the trigger when…

Both Sentries shuddered, then slumped. Before the officer became aware of their power-down, one suddenly straightened and grabbed his gun. It pulled the weapon out of his grasp and threw it away.

The other suckerpunched the officer in the gut, then knocked the butt of its own weapon against the back of his head. The officer fell to the ground, his eyes rolled back.

Jari smiled. The Sentries were on her side!

* * *

 

Throk heard the drone shut down in Cera’s arms. It beeped several times, then went dark. Everyone paused, holding their breath.

_Beep!_

The drone rebooted. Cera dropped it, and the drone hovered in the air. It floated toward Throk, beeping at him.

It was awaiting orders.

Throk grinned. He looked to the others. “It’s time!”

The tide had turned.

* * *

 

Varulk snarled in rage. He was running in circles! One minute he was chasing Throk down a hallway, the next moment there was no sign of the former commander! Every time he lost the weasel, there was a crowd of soldiers marching by, saluting when they registered their own commander thundering down the hallway.

Throk was too tall to be lost among them. They would have started shooting the moment they saw prisoner attire. So, how could he have disappeared so easily? Something was wrong.

Shots were fired, causing Varulk to stop. Screams—battle cries—echoed through the halls. Was there an invasion?

He backtracked for a few tics, foregoing Throk altogether. It didn’t take him long to find the source of the screams and shots.

His own soldiers were fighting waves of Sentries— _his_ Sentries!

He took out his battle axe and struck a few buzzing drones down, as well as one of the rogue Sentries. “What in Zarkon’s name is going on here!?” he demanded.

“The Sentries and drones, Sir,” one of the soldiers yelled over the din of battle. “They suddenly rebooted and started attacking us!”

“Why?”

“We don’t know, Sir!”

Varulk swiped more drones away. He blocked a few shots fired by the Sentries with his axe. “Was _no one_ checking the Robotics Server Room?”

The soldiers were too busy returning fire to answer.

Varulk forced his way through the opposing Sentries, taking them all down with relative ease and suffering minimal damage. He ordered the surviving soldiers to follow him, telling them they were going to head for the Robotics Server Room. Whether they had to rewire everything or just destroy it, Varulk didn’t care.

He swore loudly as more Sentries got in his way. Throk had been a distraction, he realized. Whether the Throk he was chasing had been real or some sort of hologram, he’d only driven Varulk as far away from the server room as possible.

Varulk was seething.

More screams preluded his and his soldiers’ entry into the next hall, but this time it wasn’t more soldiers screaming.

It was the prisoners.

His soldiers were fighting the prisoners! Some members of both sides were lying dead on the ground. Sentries were shooting at the soldiers, drones buzzed around overhead. The fighting prisoners had gotten a hold of weapons somehow.

“How did they get in here?” Varulk shouted, thundering towards the battle.

He’d heard the outside officers report back; the prisoners had all been accounted for in their barracks. They shouldn’t have been able to get out, much less force their way this deep into the compound.

As he sliced a path through, he noticed something. The prisoners were stronger than he’d thought they’d be. They had a twinkle in their eyes. A spring in their step.

Their spirits were no longer broken.

The commander snarled in rage as he fought his way into the hangar bay. There was no reason for him to be in there, other than it was the shortest way to the Robotics Server Room from his previous location. The hangar bay and loading docks were the most central point of the base. Fighting through there would probably get him face to face with his SiC as well, if he was lucky.

He didn’t think much about the fate of Heim, though, if at all. The only thought that came to his mind was _How_. How had the prisoners all escaped? How had they been able to get so deep into the base undetected? How had they hacked into the Robotics Server Room?

Then, in one fell swoop, the answer became clear.

Blocking the final swing of his battle axe was a single sword. Grasping it, the cause of all his problems.

Throk.

“You,” Varulk spat. He thrusted the staff of his axe forward, knocking the skinny Galra back.

The crowd seemed to stop fighting. The Sentries had disarmed the soldiers, the prisoners formed a circle around Throk and Varulk. Fine by him.

“I should have known you were behind this,” he growled at Throk. “You would be the only one to know the ins and outs of a Galra base. The schedules. How things work.”

Throk held his sword steady, his stance sharp. The tip of his sword shook a little, but Varulk assumed it was because the former commander had been severely weakened by his time as a slave.

“Not going to say anything?” Varulk sneered. “Or do you not wish to admit aloud that you’re a _traitor_ to the Empire?”

He stepped forward with a powerful downswing of his axe. Throk dove to the side with wide eyes, but still stayed silent.

Varulk, however, did not grow silent. In fact, he got louder: “You were once the High Commander of Zarkon’s entire Fleet! You had _everything_! And yet you threw it all away! The witch never disclosed what exactly landed you here, but everyone assumes you gave away some sort of mighty secret.”

Throk’s ear twitched once. Yet he did not charge. Varulk never gave him a chance to do anything but stay on the defensive. The commander just kept swinging.

“You could have accepted death as a lowly slave! Dishonorable or not, you would have died serving the Empire in the end. And yet—“ Varulk nearly hit one of his soldiers, who had joined the circle and almost didn’t get out of the way quick enough, as he swung at the evasive Throk. “—you’ve done the worst thing possible: You’ve betrayed your fellow Galra! For lesser creatures!”

He was panting now. “Stay still, you weasel!”

Throk stayed silent, still dodging his swings.

“Speak to me!” Varulk bellowed. “Defend yourself! _Do something other than run, you coward!”_

Throk finally stopped and faced Varulk. He smirked, but didn’t draw his sword.

Instead, the crowd behind him parted, revealing…a second Throk!

The second Throk stalked forward, a sword in each hand. He nodded to the first, who stepped back.

“I knew I didn’t have a chance against you at your peak,” the second Throk said slyly. “So I had someone wear you down while I made my way over to you.”

Varulk’s eyes widened as the first Throk began to shrink. Smaller and smaller he became until he was no more than kit-sized.

“Thank you, Perda,” the real Throk said with what looked like a sincere smile. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

Realization hit Varulk like a cruiser. The Boggarian…he had been the ghost Throk. The one he and Heim had seen on the monitors right before the explosion. The one that had led Varulk on the wild weblum chase! He’d probably transformed into a soldier as he turned the corners…or even something as small as a bug.

Varulk saw red. He howled and charged Throk, angrier than he’d ever been in his life.

* * *

 

Seeing Varulk so angry stirred something within Throk. He managed to block the axe and kick the larger Galra in the stomach as he came over. The resulting momentum sent them both sprawling away from each other.

Throk rolled, spry and fresh. Varulk tumbled, unbalanced and tiring. Throk had planned for this the entire time. He’d needed Perda to lead the commander on a chase through the base as long as he could.

_“Tire him out,”_ Throk had told the shifter. _“Avoid fighting, even if he’s got you cornered. Just keep him swinging and running until I get there.”_

Perda was far too young to fight. Even Throk conceded that. But running never had an age restriction, and Perda could do that far longer than any other prisoner.

Varulk had seen to that himself by making the Boggarian a water boy.

The large commander was once again charging, and Throk had to use all his strength to block the axe again and again with his two swords. The rage in his eyes…

_“In the end, it was your own aggression that was your undoing.”_

Throk smirked. Now, he understood. As much as he hated Lotor, the half-breed had been right. Anger got him nowhere except the bottom of the barrel. It was the exact opposite of what commanders taught their lieutenants, their SiCs; that anger gave them glory, as long as you utilized it correctly.

Throk exhaled and finally pushed back. His anger at the half-breed fizzled out. He couldn’t let that wrath influence him any longer. He’d focus on something else.

Freedom.

Something the Empire hadn’t given him, which he’d only just now realized. Even as a commander, the Empire—Zarkon—had been breathing down his neck. He’d had little choices in his life in the Empire.

If he won freedom here, for himself and for the others, then he could do literally anything. All that was standing in his way…was this boulder of a commander.

_“I’ve fought in thousands of battles…”_

And faced more dangerous opponents.

Time to prove it.

He dove under the swinging axe and sliced off Varulk’s false leg. The commander howled as the severed nerve wires sparked and died. Throk stabbed his swords into Varulk’s other leg and one of his arms, pinning him to the ground.

“Yield,” he growled to the injured Galra.

Varulk and Throk had a staring contest, then. Their eyes—each flaming—locked and neither of them looked away. They didn’t even blink.

“Yield,” Throk snarled again.

“Why should I?” Varulk questioned.

Throk twisted one of the swords, causing the commander to howl in pain. “Because you don’t deserve something as easy as death.”

Varulk spat blood at his captor. “You know as well as I that we yearn for Victory or Death. If you allow me to live, I will do whatever it takes to kill you.”

Throk bent down, nearly touching noses with Varulk he was so close. “I wouldn’t be so sure, _Commander_. I also was spared from death when, by all rights, I should have died. I was _denied_ the honor of death in combat.”

He smirked. “I’m going to give you—and any soldiers who do not wish to join me—safe passage off this rock. You can go back to Zarkon. Beg his forgiveness and try to talk your way back into his good graces. But know this: I failed to defend a small post on the edge of the galaxy and became a Druid’s plaything for it. _You_ failed to quell a slave uprising and lost a whole plantation moon to said slaves. I wonder what Zarkon would want to do with _you_.”

Suddenly, the dark purple commander had paled to nearly a lavender shade. His jaw went slack with shock and realization.

Throk removed the swords. “You _could_ just not return to the Empire at all, too. Become a fugitive. Honestly, that’s the best chance you’ve got at this point. And it’s the only one I’m giving you.”

All the soldiers were visibly shaking. He knew what was running through their heads: Throk had been of the highest rank in the Empire under Zarkon and his witch. He’d been reduced to a slave for his failure. _They_ were merely foot soldiers and junior officers. Death was the only option for them if they returned to the Empire.

And they were all too afraid of death. None of them had faced it as much as the two Galra in front of them.

Varulk did not share in their fear. His face hardened and he looked Throk in the eye. “I hope you sleep with a knife under your pillow from now on, Throk. Because I _will_ return for you. Not as a fugitive, but as a commander of the mighty Galra Empire!”

“So be it.”


	13. Chapter 13

Throk held his head high as he walked through the command center, currently being remodeled and rewired. It had been several quintants since the successful and quick revolution of Nuliyue. Varulk had been chained to the inside of an escape pod and immediately spaced, and all soldiers unwilling to denounce the Empire were given similar fates.

Most denounced the Empire, but requested to leave Nuliyue. Throk gave them that mercy. Let them live in their failure elsewhere, forge their own paths. If they came back looking for revenge, he would accept their challenge with swords drawn.

Those that stayed were stripped of their Empire ranks and now held the lowest statuses in Throk’s court. He couldn’t give seats to all who stayed, only those who seemed to be the most useful and least conniving. The rest of the seats were given to the former slaves.

Cera, Jari, and Artyom held positions directly under Throk. Perda, advisor-in-training.

“Why in-training?” the Boggarian had questioned in front of everyone.

Throk had smiled and held his chin up. “Because you’re still young. I need you to grow up around those with more experience than you, to give you wisdoms you can use later. Though we’re all older, we’re not wiser. Just more experienced.”

That had pleased his court, that Throk—a proud, Galra—would consider a child an eventual advisor. Looking to the future was not what they’d been told Galra do.

There were those who wished total freedom of Nuliyue, who wanted nothing more than to get off and see their families again. Throk allowed them to leave, but with as few ships as possible; he would need them to start up the business again sooner or later.

“You don’t plan on using slaves to run this plantation, do you?” Jari had questioned threateningly.

Throk had chuckled. “No, no. We can use drones to weed, other robots to harvest, and cut and haul timber. Our positions would be mostly… _management_.”

The former slaves were definitely onboard with that idea. Many of them were already banding together to design newer robots and Sentries, ones that could handle the workloads.

“We’ll make sure this hellrock of a moon is back on its feet in no time,” Cera announced proudly as Throk stood in the middle of the command center. “This moon was one of the major plantations used by the Empire. By liberating it, we’ve dealt them a mighty blow.”

“Yes, we have. We may be small, but we’re more than a match for whatever the Empire sends our way,” Artyom cheered as he helped others haul an old system out. The others he was with joined him in the cheer.

Throk didn’t doubt that they would be able to stand on their own without the Empire. But, though he would punish Varulk for this failure, Emperor Zarkon would not stand for such treason. He would probably send a whole fleet to discard of the moon immediately.

That was fine. Throk would defend his new home to the end. At least then he would honorably die in battle.

Jari approached him with some rolled-up papers. “Throk, I have some designs. They’ll be basic for now while we build up our textile supply, but…I think these will be to your liking?”

Throk unrolled the paper. He smiled. “They’re perfect. Start producing them, allow personal alterations based on taste as much as you can allow.”

Jari returned the smile. “Thank you!” She skittered off, happier than Throk had seen her ever before. She was in her element, here, he knew. He had made her the head of clothing design. She’d requested that job, saying she used to work at a clothing store on her home planet.

Those designs proved she had comfortably earned her place on this newly-liberated moon.

Currently, everyone was still in their prisoner uniforms—sans the smock. Throk had promised they would have new clothes soon.

Only a quintant later, not a varga after they’d managed to get communications back online, Cera reported that a Galra fighter was heading their way.

“Should we shoot it down?” Artyom questioned.

“A single fighter could mean a scout or an ambassador,” Throk said. “Have they attempted contact?”

“Not yet.”

“Then I’ll take the initiative.”

He pressed a few buttons on the command seat’s screen, muscle memory kicking in. The call went out, and tics later was answered…

…by none other than his only friend left in the entire Empire!

“Throk,” the blue commander breathed happily. “You’re really alive. And here I’d thought I would have to scrape up your remains from the Druid labs.”

“That you think so highly of me is reassuring,” Throk deadpanned. “I’m assuming Zarkon sent you to try and negotiate the moon back into the Empire’s hands.”

His friend’s face fell. “Allow me entry. I’d rather say this in person.”

“Where’s the rest of your fleet?”

“Allied with Gnov.”

Throk’s ears shoved forward. Commander Gnov, one of Zarkon’s advisors, had another fleet under her control? Something was up.

Throk turned to Artyom. “Tell the others to allow exactly one Galra fighter into the atmosphere. We’re expecting a guest.”

* * *

 

“So, Emperor Zarkon is dead.”

Throk and his old friend were sitting in the command center. Construction was temporarily halted, and only Throk’s closest court members—Jari, Cera, Artyom, and Perda—were allowed to oversee this meeting of the Galra.

“Yes,” the blue Galra said solemnly. “And the Empire is falling apart. Many of the powerful commanders are gathering up allies, backing each other. The Kral Zera will be happening soon.”

Throk scoffed. “Of course the Empire is dying. No one was prepared for this sudden turn of events. _We_ of Zarkon’s Inner Circle would have been ready to support the highest ranking among us the _moment_ Zarkon died.”

“You mean to tell me you would have backed Prorok if it had happened before Voltron’s resurgence?” his friend asked with a smirk.

“I probably would have backed _Thace_ more,” Throk admitted with a chuckle. “But at least we all knew the inner workings of the Empire. We would have kept it running smoothly without a hitch. What can Gnov provide? Advice? How about Sniv? Or any other normal Fleet Commander? They only know the front lines and their sectors. They would be swamped the moment they took the throne.”

“I hear Ranveig is in the running.”

“Joy. Let the Warlord take the throne. Waste _more_ lives fighting Voltron. That will ensure the Empire’s survival.”

“So, will you fight in the Kral Zera, then?”

Throk paused. He’d been willing to take the throne before when Lotor first appeared. Not to become Emperor, but to keep the Empire stable. After all, everything he did was for the sake of the Emperor, not for his own gain.

But now? Against Gnov, Ranveig, even Lotor—wherever he was—Throk stood little to no chance. As satisfying as it would be to kill Lotor there at the Kral Zera with little to no repercussions, Throk decided it was not worth it.

“No,” he said aloud. His ears twitched at the slight sigh of relief engulfing the half of the room with his court. “I will not fight. I’m done with the Empire altogether. Whoever gets the throne next will not have this moon to support them.”

The blue commander stayed silent for a while, as if in contemplation. Surprisingly, he didn’t seem devastated that Throk was abandoning the dying Empire.

After a few tics, he spoke. “Then I guess I will not fight either.”

Throk’s council gasped as one. They murmured to each other, afraid of what it could mean having another Galra commander here on Nuliyue. The lower soldiers were one thing; they could get rid of their prejudices eventually, because they were younger and more susceptible to change. An older Galra like Throk was harder to change, and wasn’t always guaranteed to do so.

Throk, however, was not suspicious. His friend had been with him since Boot Camp. They’d climbed the ranks together, risen into Zarkon’s graces together. They supported each other no matter what. The fact that he was willing to denounce the Empire without being _asked_ by Throk proved that he would be loyal to Throk over anything else.

“Then I guess we have much to discuss regarding the fate of this moon when the new Emperor is crowned, huh?”

His friend and fellow ex-commander laughed. “I suppose we do. Do I get to wear Prisoner chic as well or is that no longer in style?”

Jari leaned forward just then. “Actually, Throk, sir…Thanks to a few reprogrammed Sentries, I’ve already managed to create a few hundred outfits. We can hand them out after this and change.”

Throk smiled. “Good.”

* * *

 

It took no less than a week for everyone to fall into a rhythm. Food and clothing were distributed evenly, the slave barracks were rebuilt, while the soldier barracks were converted into small apartments. The Sentries, drones, and other robots carried out the hard work, while the former slaves started setting up small bazaars and community lounges.

Throk and his best friend, along with his court, took up residence inside the compound itself. All of them heralded similar outfits: High-collared coats, dark turtleneck undershirt, and a small chestplate with a teal triangle on the front. Throk's coat had prominent shoulder pads, something he considered a staple of his. Perda had more of a robe instead of a coat, to symbolize his advisor (in-training) status.

They set up trade routes, finding rebel routes with relative ease thanks to some information Throk’s blue friend had found before he’d left the Empire. The rebels were all too happy to have Nuliyue on their side, knowing just how much the moon provided.

“We’ve been asked to join the Coalition,” Artyom reported one day. “I told them we’d get back to them.”

Throk hummed in thought. “Good call. We’ll wait and see what happens after the Kral Zera. That should be happening any day now.”

He knew Lotor was with the Coalition. That would make things awkward if Throk showed up to make nice. He was hoping Lotor would get himself killed during the Kral Zera, but the half-breed was too smart to lose to someone like Gnov, much less _Ranveig_.

The alliance would have to happen eventually, though, whether Lotor was a part of it or not.

Throk played with the high collar of his new jacket. “However,” he mused. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to give them a… _courtesy call_.”

* * *

 

_-New Message from Nuliyue-_

_“Good day, Voltron and Coalition. My name is Viceroy Throk. I hear you wish for my moon to join the Coalition. If we’re to discuss those terms, allow me to set one thing straight. This moon is no longer called Nuliyue…_

_“…We are the Drule Empire.”_


End file.
